


slay my own dragons

by steelplatedhearts



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sévérine isn't anyone's damn princess, and if she's in another castle, it'll be because she put herself there, thank you very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	slay my own dragons

**Author's Note:**

> I was pretty unsatisfied with Sévérine's story, to say the least, so I made an attempt to fix it up a bit.

“I don’t gamble,” she says, and this is true. She adds, “I’m not very lucky,” and this, while also true, isn’t the reason she doesn’t gamble.

Why leave things up to chance that can easily be controlled and manipulated? It’s much safer to know where all the cards are before you play, and at that point, it isn’t even gambling anymore, it’s just quick thinking and carrying out a plan.

*   *   *   *   *

Silva’s plans have been in place for a very long time, and so have hers. When Mr. Bond comes to the casino, she laughs and flirts and pretends to not know who he is.

But she knows. She knows more about him than he could imagine. To not know would leave elements of the plan up to chance, and that’s gambling, which she doesn’t do.

“You put on a good show,” he says, and she almost wants to laugh at that. _More than you’ll ever know, Mr. Bond._

She makes her hand shake a little bit more, acts like a scared and hesitant princess to be rescued.

“Can you kill him?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Maybe he can, she thinks, but that doesn’t matter. She’s certainly not going to put all her faith in this man, old before his time.

If anyone’s going to set her free, it’ll have to be her.

*   *   *   *   *

She sleeps with him, because that’s the way his narratives seem to go, and anyway, why not?

She’s noticed trends in her research, patterns and storylines that all his missions seem to follow. There’s a beautiful girl, and he sleeps with her, only to be distraught at her death soon after.

But he’s older now, more haunted, and she thinks that her “death” might not upset him all that much.

This is fine with her. She won’t be terribly unhappy if he dies either.

*   *   *   *   *

Silva carefully balances the scotch on her head and tells her to stand up straight, and if the next few minutes weren’t so crucial, if her plan didn’t hinge entirely on what was about to happen, she would headbutt him.

Instead, she schools her face into a blank, dead expression, and runs through the next bits in her head.

This is where she is supposed to die.

Bond will shoot first, and he will miss, by a wide margin too, so there is no chance of him being directly responsible for her death.

Silva will kill her without blinking an eye.

They’ll fight, Silva will allow himself to get captured, and Sévérine will be left forgotten on the island.

That’s her place in the narrative—to be sexy, to be beautiful, and then to die. It should be a sad, cautionary tale, but it turns out that recognizing the role you’re meant to fill allows you to exploit it.

Bond shoots, and misses, as she knew he would. Silva picks up his gun, and Sévérine’s heart speeds up as she watches his trigger finger like a hawk.

The moment he shoots she slumps over, goes completely boneless and plays dead. The rope holding her up bites into her stomach, but she doesn’t move. She can’t. She hears shooting and fighting, but doesn’t move.

Bond doesn’t check on her once Silva is in custody. She knew he wouldn’t.

*   *   *   *   *                              

She follows them to England and waits for the other shoe to fall, for Silva to execute part two of his plan.

This is the only thing she has to leave to chance. She’s supposed to be dead; she can’t really do much to stop him herself. Bond would have questions, and if he didn’t, his superiors certainly would.

She’s sold her jewels and dresses and other fancy things she took from the island before she left, and she’s checked into a hotel until she knows that it’s over.

When Silva attacks the building where The Woman is and escapes, Sévérine spends two days locked in the room with a knife and a gun, staring at the door.

Silva does not come.

Finally, the news comes through that he’s dead, well and truly dead, and she laughs, what feels like her first genuine laugh in years.

*   *   *   *   *

The first thing she does is get her tattoo lasered off. The second thing she does is buy herself a small gun to keep in her purse and a few knives to keep in her shoes. They’re no Beretta, but they will have to do. She then moves out to France, to the Riviera, where’s there’s sun, sea, and casinos.

She is still scared, and she thinks it will be a long while until she isn’t anymore. She still has her bad days, where she sees a glimpse of a blond man in a white coat and feels like she’s drowning, struggling for breath, and has to excuse herself to control her sobs and remind herself that _he’s dead, he’s gone, that isn’t him, you’re free, you’re free, you’re free._

She trades in all her fine, slinky clothes for oversized sweaters, scarves that you can wrap around your neck four or five times, for boots lined with fur—for clothes that are comforting and warm and don’t require perfect carriage and posture. She keeps her nails, grown long and filed into claws, and her lips, painted blood red.

She spends time in the casinos, because there’s almost something comforting about the familiar atmosphere. When she goes there, she wears bright colors in clashing patterns, fluorescent animal prints and angular, space-occupying silhouettes, as if she’s screaming _just try to look away from me, I dare you_. She’s not trying to hide anymore.

When handsome, icy men in tuxedos offer to buy her a drink, she laughs and blows smoke in their faces, because she _can_.

It’s an exhilarating feeling, being able to do that, so she does, at every chance she gets.

Bond does not bother her, MI6 does not bother her, Silva is dead and gone, and none of his men find her, or if they do, they leave her alone. She has no ties to anyone, no past to speak of, nothing connecting her to anything.

Some would find that sad. But she rather feels like a balloon that’s been let go, soaring up into the air and drifting with the wind.

There is nowhere to go but up.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Slay My Own Dragons (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6729130) by [auroreanrave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/pseuds/auroreanrave)




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